


Trigger Warning

by RedRowan



Series: La Belle Dame Sans Merci [3]
Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Brief Mention of Bondage, F/M, Female Matt Murdock, Grief/Mourning, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rule 63
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-23
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-12-05 17:24:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11582730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedRowan/pseuds/RedRowan
Summary: Frank Castle was an emotional minefield.  Even when he had a good thing going, something was going to set him off.





	Trigger Warning

February turned into March, which disappeared so quickly Frank barely even realized it had been there. He only knew that it was April when Red gave him some intel, leading him to sit in his truck for two hours, waiting for some scumbags who never showed. He’d been determined to give her hell for his wasted evening, except that she’d been naked in his bed when he got to the studio he’d rented with cash stolen from a major drug dealer (now six feet under).

“April Fools,” she said.

“You come up with the _worst_ pranks, Red.”

“Who said it was a prank? I got tons of shit done without having to make sure you didn’t kill anyone.”

“Don’t try to pretend you didn’t just run out of ideas.”

She’d smiled, and pulled a pair of leather cuffs out from under the sheet, dangling them from the tip of her finger.

“I think I came up with a pretty good one, thank you very much,” she’d said.

It had been a good night.

But April meant a whole lot of other things, too. Dates that loomed in the future, telling him of a fixed period of time that had passed. Telling him that his life could easily be divided into this year and the time before.

He thought the anniversary would be hard. Instead, Red went with him to the cemetery, and stood with him over the graves with her fingers laced through his. Maria. Lisa. Junior. There was a space, next to Maria, for him. 

“Make sure they put me here, when it happens,” he said.

Red nodded. “Of course.”

Red asked if he wanted a minute alone. He squeezed her fingers and asked her to stay.

The anniversary wasn’t hard. It was the days after, when he realized it _hadn’t_ been hard, that were rough. He avoided Red, feeling guilty for what he felt around her, until she showed up on his doorstep and dragged him to her ratty-ass gym and shoved him into the ring. It felt good, letting it out, knowing she wasn’t scared of him. When they were sweaty and sore and just a little bit bloody, he fucked her up against the shower wall before taking her back to her place and letting it out all over again.

He woke up on silk sheets that smelled of sex and that particular scent that he just called “Red” in his head. Red had shoved back the covers on her side, and the space where she’d been was cool. He lifted his head, and saw her in the kitchen in just her robe, stirring something on the counter.

“Hey,” she called. “Making breakfast.”

“Don’t you have to work?” he called, rummaging around for his boxers.

“It’s Saturday.”

Right. Actual people don’t work on the weekends. And he’d forgotten the day of the week again.

He pulled on his clothes and padded to the kitchen. Red was a tea drinker, so the kettle was already hot, a mug of green tea on the counter next to the bowl she was stirring. He pulled out the French press she'd bought when he’d complained about her lack of coffee-making equipment, and poured in some of the fancy coffee grounds she kept for him, topping it up with the hot water. He watched her put a pan on the stovetop and light the gas.

“What’s for breakfast?” he said.

“Pancakes.” She dropped a pat of butter into the pan.

He smiled and rested his hands on her hips, pressing up against her back.

“Didn’t know you could cook,” he said.

“I’m a very good cook, I’ll have you know,” she said, gesturing with the spatula. She cocked her head and swirled the butter in the pan. Frank reached past her and pulled a ladle from the drawer next to the stove, holding it out for her. He watched her take a scoop of batter and drop it into the pan, watched it spread out into a flat, creamy disc. He brushed her hair away from her ear and pressed a kiss to the side of her neck, right above the bite mark he’d left there last night.

“So how come you’ve never made me breakfast before?” he said.

“I only make breakfast for nice guys.”

“I’m not nice?” He kissed her neck again, and sucked on her earlobe for good measure. His hand slipped into her robe, and his suspicion had been right, she wasn’t wearing anything underneath.

“You are the opposite of nice.” She turned her head and he kissed her, his hand on her breast, and he considered whether she’d let him bend her over the counter. But he lost the chance, because she swatted at his hand as she pulled her lips away. “And I’m going to burn the pancakes.” She turned and flipped the pancake. Perfect golden-brown. He wrapped his arms around her waist and rested his chin on her shoulder. The sweet smell of the cooking pancakes was drifting up to him, and he could remember holding Maria like this, hearing the kids clatter down the stairs on a Sunday morning, and he was home, home for good now, and they’d go to the park and -

“Frank?!” Red’s voice snapped him back. “Sweetie, talk to me.”

He’d lost time. He was across the kitchen, sitting on the floor. Red was crouched in front of him, her hands on his knees. Her head swung around.

“Shit,” she muttered, and scrambled across the kitchen to turn off the gas, and Frank could just start to smell the burning pancake. She turned back to him, but he was already on his feet.

“I should go.”

“No, sweetie -“ She reached out to him, and he smacked her hand away.

“Leave it, Red!” He grabbed his boots and his coat, and didn’t say a word to her as he ran up the stairs, even though he could hear her calling his name.

He walked. He wasn’t sure where; it didn’t matter, anyway. It wasn’t really New York he was walking through. Every blonde woman looked like Maria, every dark-haired one looked like Red. All the Marias looked at him in anger and betrayal, that he’d replaced her so quickly. Sometimes he’d see Lisa and Junior, or all three of them together. Sometimes whole, sometimes covered in blood, dark eyes asking him why he thought he deserved to feel good when they were gone.

He lost track of time. It could have been hours, for all he knew, before he unlocked the door to his place. He wasn’t surprised to find Red waiting for him, sitting on the bed in her jeans and hoodie.

“Are you OK?” she said, standing up.

“Fine,” he lied.

“Frank -“

“I’m _fine_ , Red.”

“No, you’re not. You practically had a panic attack in my kitchen, then you ran off without saying a word.”

“It wasn’t a panic attack.”

“Fine,” she said, chopping at the air with her hands. “Whatever.” She stepped forward and put her hands on his arms, her face full of concern. “What happened?”

“Don’t do that, Red,” he snapped, pushing her hands away.

“Don’t do what? Give a shit?” She was starting to get exasperated. Good. If she was exasperated, she might leave. “Jesus Christ, are you going to run every time I’m _nice_ to you?” 

He didn’t answer, and looked away from her so he didn’t have to see her put it together.

“Oh, shit,” she breathed.

“Just get out of here, Red.”

“I’m not going to do that.”

“Yeah, well, you should. I told you, I’m no good for you.”

“And you know I’m going to tell you that’s bullshit.”

“I’m just going to get you hurt.” Just like anyone else he’s…cared about.

She put her hands on her hips and cocked her head.

“The first time we met, you shot me in the head,” she said. “We can really only go up from there.”

He shook his head.

“The best part of me died in the park,” he said. “I don’t - I can’t -“

“Shh…” She was there, her hands on either side of his face, and he pressed his forehead against hers. Her hand moved down until it rested over his heart, and he covered it with his own. “You can’t torture yourself forever.”

“Wanna bet?”

“Sure. I happen to know a little bit about self-flagellation.”

He breathed out something in between a laugh and a sigh, and gave in, putting his arm around her waist and pulling her against him.

“How do you do it?” he murmured next to her ear.

“Badly,” she said. “I thought…It dragged me down, and I didn’t fight it, because I thought I deserved to hurt that much. But then I had you, and everything hurt a little less.”

He squeezed her tight and held her, letting the scent of her fill up his nostrils, and she was right, everything hurt a little less. Just a little.

He finally let her go, and pretended not to notice the tears at the corners of her eyes.

“Did I ever tell you I was sorry?” he said.

“Sorry for what?”

“The first time we met.”

She smiled and shook her head. “No.”

“Huh.” He reached out and brushed his thumb against the spot on her forehead where he’d shot her. “Sorry, Red.”

“No hard feelings.” She took a deep breath and visibly shook herself. “So, do you want to come back to my place?”

“No.”

“No?”

He took her hand in his.

“I think…today, we should go out. Do something. Like… a date.”

She nodded. “OK. Let’s have a date.”

He opened the door, and hand-in-hand, they went out into the city.

**Author's Note:**

> What's this? Another one? Just couldn't get these two out of my head while I was waiting for Defenders to drop! Hope you enjoyed it, and sorry for the lack of Keats quotes!


End file.
